The Shadows of Light
by Truthwriter
Summary: A sorceress battles her past, trying to overcome her fears to become a true mage. But can she defeat the darkness in the shadows of light?
1. Prologue

The brighter the light, the darker the shadows.  
  
In the northern reaches of the world, Sanctuary, the two parents conferred in quiet whispers, softly enough not to disturb their only child, their 7-year-old daughter who had fallen ill again. It had been a bitterly cold winter. The chill outside seemed to creep into the young girl's frail body, undeterred by the thick walls of the stone house. It seemed a living thing, that cold, and in its dissatisfaction it worked tirelessly to defeat all efforts to combat it. And so the girl was shivering again, from the frosty kiss of the raging blizzard outside. Each time, it seemed as though she would not make it through the illness, that it would consume her body at last. But still she staved off the inevitable, surviving only by the work of miracles and the parents' careful ministrations.  
  
"What should we do?" It was a question that had echoed far too often in the minds of both parents since Chantelle's birth. The blizzard mimicked that haunting question in a mocking wail. Like an answer to unspoken prayers, there came a soft knock at the door, barely discernible against the fury of the storm. The knock was repeated again, and once more. The two shared a questioning look. Indeed, who would be outside at a time like this? The thought that one who meant harm might be waiting there flashed through their minds, but passed away just as swiftly as it had come. No one would travel through life-stealing weather conditions to hurt others. After another brief moment of hesitation, the girl's father pulled open the heavy wooden door.  
  
A mysterious stranger, cloaked from head to foot with a softly colored silk robe, stood in the open doorway. Not a hint of snow had graced that robe, that cloth so unsuitable for this angry weather. Falling ice fragments traced other trajectories instead, sliding off an invisible barrier to settle on the pure, serene land. It was impossible to determine the stranger's gender, as the layers of rich cloth concealed all visible features. The figure was tall, standing with quiet dignity on the steps of pale crushed stone. The voice, however, was sweetly melodious, and unmistakably feminine. "I am Arcanna," she declared, slowly drawing back her hood to reveal a light, attractive face with large, questioning eyes. "I am a sorceress of the Zann Esu."  
  
Bewildered, Chantelle's father, a tall middle-aged man with dark skin and an open, honest manner, replied haltingly, "Pleased to meet you…Arcanna. Would you care to come inside for a respite?"  
  
"Yes, and thank you, kind sir," the sorceress said, stepping inside as the man shut the door tightly behind them. The wife heaped another few logs into the forlorn blaze under the red brick chimney. Those seasoned logs were as precious as gold to the family, for they were life's fuel itself, painstakingly stockpiled all summer. Arcanna noted this generous hospitality and smiled. "If you and your lovely wife do not mind, I would like to make a few inquiries concerning your daughter."  
  
"Our daughter?" The girl's father stammered, "But our little girl is ill again…she may not make it through the night…"  
  
"May I see her? I am not a healer, but I have a potion that may help."  
  
"We're not a wealthy couple," the man stated, obviously embarrassed and awed in the presence of the magic-user. Then, with a quick burst of words, he blurted, "We will not be able to pay you. Our daughter's expenses has drained what little remained of our old savings. We are barely able to support ourselves as it is. But our child… she is our lives. If you can save her, we will do anything for you."  
  
"I do not require money or any other form of recompense," Arcanna said firmly.  
  
With some hope, the girl's father led the way to a small room, taking great care to open the door gently, so as to not disturb the one sleeping within. His wife, a younger woman with nervous hands and a timid countenance, followed after the sorceress into the room. The brown-haired woman seemed devoid of any real hope, but still she had to ask. "Can you help her?"  
  
Arcanna's heart clenched to see the thin shape lying so limply on the bed. The girl seemed no more than a limp doll, just as weak and lifeless. Pale limbs draped over one another in lackadaisical abandon. Her chest did not rise and fall with a regular rhythm but rather struggled erratically to sustain a piteous life. But though it was a sad sight, it was not one to which there was no remedy. The girl had innate powers, the sorceress could tell at a magically enhanced glance. But she would soon be lost without the necessary guidance to nurture the magic within her.  
  
"I can help her," Arcanna told the father, slowly and carefully, so he would understand the importance of what she was telling him. "I can help her," she repeated, "but the very nature of her illness is magic itself. I have no idea how this affliction came to be placed upon her, but it can neither be cured nor removed by any means short of death. For her to truly recover, she must study the art of magic, master it, and finally defeat this debilitating sickness. I am breaking our traditional policy by offering an apprenticeship on my first visit, but I feel that Chantelle's is truly an exceptional case."  
  
"You are willing to apprentice our daughter and teach her magic?" the man said unbelievingly. It was a miracle for the common folk to be visited by one of the magi, but to be apprenticed was a near impossibility. This woman seemed trustworthy, but one could never know. She offered hope however, hope for a life that was nearly gone. Facing the imminent death of their daughter sealed the matter. The husband conferred with his spouse for moments only, before turning to the sorceress to reveal their obvious decision.  
  
Arcanna interjected smoothly. "Of course, it would mean that she would live with us of the Zann Esu until she becomes strong in magical prowess and educated in our roles as protectors of the realm. Then she may go wherever she pleases. But first, let me tell you of our villages, where Chantelle will live."  
  
There was an unmistakable tone of pride in Arcanna's voice as she continued. "To the east lies jungles of such breathtaking beauty that people, immersed within a green-hued paradise that no poor words of mine can accurately describe, can lose their individuality to the greater consciousness of nature. Verdant plant life proliferates with vibrant joy, springing up everywhere the eyes look. There are so many types of tree and shrub and moss that to try to classify them would be sacrilege. These plants bring a whole new spectrum to the colors of the rainbow, violet blues, sun-tinged orange and reds, and every shade of green life there is to be found.  
  
Our villages are built in the midst of this spectacular panorama. Vines serve as our ropes and the trees themselves offer a natural shelter. Naturally, there are carnivorous predators in the jungle, but every village has its own specially trained guard to deal with threats. This elite guard has proven time and time again that they can adequately handle any dangers with ease.  
  
I cannot tell you the exact location of our villages, for the Zann Esu like to remain aloof from the troubled world, only coming out to help as necessary. Nevertheless, rest assured that your daughter is in very safe and capable hands."  
  
Chantelle's father looked at the woman sharply, dismayed. lovingly at the frail figure on the bed. There would be no more bright laughter to fill up the house, no more insistent questioning, no more of the cheery presence that was his only daughter. With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he made up his mind. Tears welled up in the man's eyes as he spoke, blurring his vision. "If it will save my daughter, then please do this. We have nothing to offer you but our undying gratitude and heartfelt thanks."   
  
"I will do the best I can," Arcanna promised. She tenderly lifted the girl, breathing words no ordinary mortal could understand. Outside, the storm slowly abated, its strength flagging from its initial onslaught. Hail ceased falling; the subdued wind carried the sweet scent of freshly fallen snow. And when the man opened his eyes again, it was to an empty room. 


	2. Beginnings

Warmth…warmth pervaded her being at last. The years had changed Chantelle much. The strain of earlier sicknesses no longer showed itself. She had become a young woman, revealed in her long raven tresses, glowing ebony eyes, and nubile figure. Her lips were perfectly shaped, glistening soft and sweet. Shin shone a rare shade of bronze, smooth and unblemished. Silky, clinging garments hugged her tanned, graceful body. She had a fragile face that managed to be innocent and alluring at the same time, and her hands were small and delicate. But she was not frail, by any means. Not anymore. Arcanna had instructed her well in the arts of sorcery. Chantelle learned the basic spells with ease, and now turned to mastering the more challenging aspects of the Art.  
  
She recalled Arcanna's parting advice as she made her way into the arid deserts of Aranoch. "Magic is not a tool for any to flaunt. The necromancers of the Eastern jungles profess to battle the forces of evil, but they themselves practice dark magicks and demonic sorceries. They are but one step removed from those they claim to fight. It is thus that only we of the Zann Esu pursue true magic, the only pure sorceries that stem from the primal forces of nature itself. When you go forth into the world to do battle against the foul creatures of the underworld that have invaded our realm, remember this truth. Remember that the uninitiated and those who do not follow the ways of pure magic are a fickle and barbaric lot. Do not journey with them at all; avoid contact if possible. A sorceress needs no others. Use the Light." This last was an enigma; Chantelle decided to figure it out later.  
  
The sun's rays bore down on the desolate tract, beating it mercilessly with thoughts of revenge for some long-forgotten wrong. Unable to surrender, individual grains of sand quivered under the relentless assault. Heat wrapped around the young girl, and she felt content despite the overbearing incalescence. Compared to the freezing temperatures of her childhood, this warmth was a welcome pleasure.  
  
As Chantelle walked across the sea of endless rock and sand that made up the Rocky Wastes, she noticed an abnormal number of vulture demons. Ugly, gray scavenger birds swooped across the sky, shrieking in horrible voices that resembled those of the witches of old. Their wicked, hooked claws only added to the image, though they were almost hidden by the thatch of sharp, patched feathers. The mutated avian creatures seemed to be congregating above an old waypoint, one of the ancient pathways constructed by the Vizjeri magi. The young sorceress realized they were waiting…but for what?  
  
Then, a shout rose above the din of the squawking birds, a shout full of rage and pain and fury. A barbarian! The deep-throated war cry had to come from one of those prodigious savage warriors, so immersed within the legendry of Sanctuary. Curious, Chantelle slid toward the sound for a closer look. She had read about them, of course, but had never seen one up close. The sorceress watched from relative safety by a dried husk of a cactus, one of the only types of vegetation hardy enough to survive in the barren desert.   
  
A sturdy, barrel-chested man stood alone, fighting off enormous beetles…scarab demons. The barbarian's bronzed face was scarred with swirling blue tattoos dedicated to honor and combat, two concepts held mostly highly by Bul-Kathos, the legendary barbarian king. His mouth was locked in a feral grin as he wielded two massive swords with graceful ease. The swirling swords were identical, with sleek contours and an extra long reach. Stained yellow with his enemies' blood, they nevertheless carried the red tint of his own bleeding wounds as well.  
  
The scarabs surrounded him completely now, swiping repeatedly with barbed, scythe-like arms. It was easy to see that the lone man would soon fall. Only his superior combat skills and fighting experience kept the attackers at bay. Chantelle regarded his enthusiasm with melee fighting with more than a little disgust, but she couldn't bear to watch the heroic warrior die like this.  
  
Retreating to the safety of her mind, the magic-user recalled her youth and the deadly snowstorms. Having never been exposed to such elements, the desert scarabs would surely retreat. Chantelle murmured quiet words. Her fingers traced arcane symbols in the air, giving the impression of a painting artist. Intense cold flooded her body, and her dark eyes faded to crystal white. The coldness left her, channeling into the sky. She smiled with elation even as exhaustion swiftly took her. This exhaustion indicated the successful casting of the spell, taxing the spiritual energy of the mage to shape the magic and give it form and substance. This particular incantation had taken many long years to learn, but it was hers now… Feeling peculiarly lethargic, she sat next to the tree, wordlessly watching the effects of her magic.  
  
Rain fell from the clear sky, gradually hardening to pricks of ice, then into blocks of hail. The wind picked up speed, whipping the hot sands with a blinding force. A few vultures, still circling their prey, were quickly struck down from midair, crumpling into disparate heaps on the hard ground. The rest departed with all possible speed, hoping to find an easier meal. The unnaturally large insects likewise beat a hasty retreat when the freezing spikes impaled their rigid shells.   
  
Chantelle suddenly realized that the man, clad in nothing but a tattered brown animal skin, would fall to the blizzard's effects just as the scarabs had. She tried frantically to think of a spell to counteract the swirl of blinding ice and snow, or at least partially shield him, but knew none. At that moment, however, the barbarian gathered the last of his strength and made a tremendous leap, propelling himself out of the snowstorm's range. The big man collapsed at her feet, finally submitting to fatigue.  
  
He did not rise. He did not breathe either. Alarmed, Chantelle kneeled beside him, pressing her soft hands against his hard, muscular chest to check for any signs of a heartbeat. There was none. Had he suffered a mortal blow during the battle? Or during his escape from the blizzard? Her blizzard? She quickly reached into a side pouch for a healing potion, hoping it would be enough. The magic-user tenderly cradled the barbarian's head in her lap as she trickled the reddish liquid down his throat. Instantly she could see color returning to his ashen cheeks. Cuts and slashes closed up, and the deep wounds coagulated. The sorceress breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
The barbarian opened his startling deep blue eyes. In the next second, he was on his feet, brandishing his twin swords with a snarl. Chantelle eyed the scarred blades that still dripped with yellow scarab blood. For the first time, the girl noticed just how much he dwarfed her, his swift and graceful movements belying his massive girth. His strong, disfigured face was not at all unattractive, either. Sweat covered his body, plastering a thin layer of sand to his back and arms.  
  
The sorceress prepared a defensive spell to repel the man she'd saved. The warrior seemed ready to attack, but evidently remembered the earlier ice storm. Eyes narrowed, he studied her intently before asking in a surprisingly compassionate voice, "Who are you?"  
  
Chantelle considered Arcanna's tutelage and her constant warnings against outsiders, "Approach with caution those who do not follow our ways. Some are honest, but most are untrustworthy. They may help you when it benefits them, but they can leave you on your own just as easily. It is better to rely on yourself and your own skill." She should heed her mentor's advice. But how could she ignore the man's soulful eyes, gazing at her with such serious intensity?  
  
"My name is Chantelle," she told him shyly. The Zann Esu rarely saw men. Those they did see came from the male Eastern mage clans, always swallowed in layers of voluminous cloth, and just as covered with a repressive formality that discouraged intimacy. The barbarian's lack of clothing both appalled and fascinated her. Was he cold? Had he no shame, no decency? Why was he baring himself like this?  
  
The barbarian suddenly grinned. "Well, Chantelle, thank you for saving my life back there. It was good you came along when you did, or I'd be done in by those scarabs. My name's Somme Tiras by the way, but you can just call me Somme or Tiras."  
  
The sorceress couldn't help but smile at the man's amiable manner. His voice had a soothing quality to it. It was definitely pleasant. "Tiras it is then."  
  
"So where did you learn that fancy magic? Where are you from?"  
  
"Somewhere in the east jungles. It's a small village really."  
  
"Well, I come from a small village too. More comfortable that way. What brought you over here? I'm sure it wasn't the nice view." Tiras waved a hand, encompassing the heaps of crumpled, stinking feathers, putrid innards leaking out of hard carapaces, and blood-soaked sand. Chantelle eyed the mess dubiously and laughed.  
  
But now that she examined her surroundings, the place did seem more sinister. The sun still burned brightly, but now it was a terrible sort of warmth, like the flush of a feverish victim. The desert sands drank in blood greedily, indiscriminate against human, insect, or vulture. Red and yellow and black blood mixed together to create a disgusting brown solution. A large swarm of insect buzzed and hovered over this earthly nectar and the rest of the remains, exhilarated by the early feast. Eyes, terrible flashing eyes, watched the two across the desert. Her thoughtful detachment converted into attentive alertness as the possibility of a second attack that could be potentially lethal became evident.  
  
The warrior patted her soft shoulders awkwardly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."  
  
"I…" Her word was lost and scattered by the sudden rush of a hot wind. That was just as well; her task was supposed to remain a secret anyway.  
  
Tiras' expression conspicuously darkened. "I… came here to earn money." Chantelle almost laughed, so serious the expression on his handsome face, but was thankful that she had restrained herself as he continued.   
  
Tiras pensively resumed, not even noticing her inappropriate outburst in his melancholic mindset. "My family's not doing well back home. Our village's source of food, our family farms, was suddenly beset by continued crop failures. Not only that, but a series of droughts have plagued us as well. Even the plants still alive cannot be eaten. They've turned poisonous; even a small bite will turn you delusional and half-mad. My own sister, Hanna, hid away and ate a bowl of grain because she was starving. Days later, we found her frenetically attacking the dogs with a shovel. By the same time next time, she had died… I've been away for some time now. I hear my family's going to try to move."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Tiras grimaced as he snapped back to the present. As if embarrassed for revealing so much, he quickly said, "That's okay. I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. It's my problem. Hey it's gonna get dangerous around here pretty soon, with the desert scavengers and all. Some of them are pretty big, nasty creatures. Why don't you head back to Lut Gholein with me? I'll show you around the city."  
  
Chantelle hesitated. It would be a definite breach of her teacher's warnings, but what harm could there be? The man seemed honorable enough. He appeared to be familiar with the port city, and she needed a guide. Another guide might not be trustworthy, or charge exaggerated prices, whereas Tiras promised to be both interesting and capable. Besides, it would do benefit her to learn more about the desert cultures if she was to complete her appointed quest. She nodded once. "Okay." 


	3. Promises

The two walked to the venerable Vizjeri portal. Called waypoints, their origins lay in powerful magicks that were now lost. The early waypoints were faulty, powered by magic barely understood and thus inconsistent and rarely accurate. Those who used these risked becoming forever lost in a dreamworld between realities. But eventually they were perfected, and most of the early ones destroyed. But how to access them, Chantelle could only guess. An unappealing shade of earthy brown, rough and unhewn, the artifact had nonetheless served travelers faithfully for eons. Quick and relatively easy to use, it saved a tremendous amount of time, not to mention permitting relief from the hordes of demonic creatures patrolling the savage deserts. "The way it's constructed, you can only go to waypoints you've been to before. Probably some sort of safety issue," Tiras explained.  
  
"I've never used one before. How does it work?" Chantelle asked.  
  
"See, you just step on the waypoint and think of the place you want to go to. Just keep your mind blank and I'll take us to Lut Gholein. Be prepared, or it may not work. We sure don't want to end up stranded or lost in these old Vizjeri things. Here, I'll show you."   
  
The barbarian grabbed her hand and led her onto the old stone. The waypoint was strangely cold. Chantelle could feel the cold beneath her feet and was reminded instantly of her past, when each step would feel solidly glacial. Keenly aware of every sensation, Chantelle realized that it was strange to feel another's touch on her own skin. The Zann Esu were a reserved people, and only used touch to make certain points clear. Chantelle couldn't decide what she thought about it. The man's hand was rough and calloused from years of wielding weaponry, but it was also warm and felt right.  
  
Tiras told her, "Now you're going to get a weird feeling for a moment."  
  
The hot air suddenly evaporated and dissipated, leaving a more tolerable temperature. In fact, it was actually becoming quite cool. The world shuddered and emptied of light, leaving the companions alone in darkness. Chantelle shivered; she couldn't see Tiras or even herself at all. Then, visions of the desert appeared, rushing past her in waves too fast for the eyes to catch. Glimpses of the future? The present? They were undecipherable, leaving only a subliminal presence in the mind. As suddenly as it began, the flashes stopped. The world seemed to slow until Chantelle could make out individual images. She felt somewhat lightheaded.  
  
he two were in the middle of a crowded plaza. The waypoint was recognizable from nearby stones only by the ancient runes of the Vizjeri. The loud clamor combined with the heat and exhaustion made Chantelle increasingly disoriented. Tiras approached her, his fascinating, tattooed face marked with concern. "Are you okay? Sometimes I feel a little queasy after a ride through one of those. Maybe you should sit down." The infectious grin materialized on the warrior's face.  
  
Her head pounded incessantly. A multitude of clamoring voices grew louder and louder, pressing with dry, insistent heat that sapped the moisture from the throat. The noise grew until the world was but an extension of the reverberating sounds, echoing and ringing in the ears. Tiras, however, seemed astonishingly unaffected. The sorceress couldn't imagine the vigorous man ever feeling sick. Chantelle smiled ruefully, blocking out all the noise in the air. Her case of claustrophobia was mild, but it was still maddening how she always felt trapped in large crowds. "Thank you for your concern, but I will be fine."  
  
"Alright then, if you say so." Cheerfully, the barbarian strode towards their unknown destination, his massive frame leaving a wake for the girl to follow. The big man's tassel of brown hair hung in a ponytail, swinging back and forth in an almost comical manner. Chantelle snickered. That hair was like the mane of a horse.  
  
The place was like a maze. Street after labyrinthine street they passed, leaving her wondering how the blue-eyed fighter could make sense of it all. Tiras navigated through great mobs with ease, parting them like fields of swaying wheat. He stopped at an austere building of plain white marble. Inside, the furniture was quite Spartan, having only enough comfort to relieve the weary. In stark divergence from the ascetic model was a sign that proclaimed in bold, flowing red script, "Potions now on sale!" A potion shop. Tiras had taken them to one of the most common places in all of Sanctuary.   
  
"So how much will it be, Elzix?" The large warrior asked a stooped man, hair streaked white with age.  
  
"You know, the usual."  
  
"But it says they're on sale!"  
  
"Heahea… you youngsters, always taking everything so seriously. I cut the price by half for today. No one seems to be traveling out into the desert anymore. Strange…strange. Business is running bad because of that. I don't understand." The old man's voice trailed off into a mumble.  
  
"Don't worry, Elzix! Every business has its ups and downs! I'll tell everyone that your potions are the best!"  
  
Elzix smiled warmly. "That's what I like about you, Tiras, always so jovial and optimistic." He handed the warrior several blood-red vials.  
  
Tiras drew a couple gold pieces from his belt, laying them on the simple counter that served as the potion maker's workplace. The other man frowned. "You paid nearly double the regular price!"  
  
"I know. Well, we've got to get on our way." Tiras laughed and ran with Chantelle out of the potion shop.   
  
Elzix hobbled after them a ways, "Get back here, you rascal!" Watching them depart, he smiled and called, "May the Light always shine upon you!"  
  
Lut Gholein was a rich port city. Arcanna had called it, in thoughtful tones, "the Jewel of the Desert." Houses and shops sprawled across the metropolis in every direction. Wherever she looked, Chantelle could see musicians playing their flutes and other exotic instruments, some delicate and light, others heavy and resonant. Merchants cried out in vociferous cacophony, showing off their wares, and dancers sported fabulous jewels as they gyrated tirelessly. As Tiras led her into the center of the bustling marketplace, she saw crowds gathered around a respectable-looking armory to admire the latest marvel, a marvelous sword.  
  
The barbarian paused to gaze longingly at the finely crafted blade. The hilt bore a single large ruby, which seemed to enfold the weapon in flame. The warm steel emanated an aura of strength and power, gleaming with a soft crimson glow. From the ebony grip to polished steel and silver edge, the sword was truly a show of master workmanship. Chantelle could hear snatches of conversation from her vantage point.   
  
"What a beautiful sword!"  
  
"I heard the owner would sell it for several thousand gold pieces. I wish I had the money!"  
  
"With this baby, I'll never be defeated again!" This came from a balding, pot-bellied man in his middle ages, drawing laughter all around.  
  
"The sword holds many strange and powerful enchantments. It'll make its user nearly invulnerable!"  
  
Tiras gave a wistful sigh, obviously wishing he had the money to purchase such an awesome weapon. He was probably regretting giving Elzix the extra money already. "You know, I was wondering. Just maybe…I don't suppose you have any money to lend me?" His sapphire eyes pleaded beguilingly.  
  
Chantelle laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Tiras. All that I own is with me right now…I don't have any money."  
  
The big man looked suddenly crestfallen. "Oh well, that's okay. I guess I'll just have to fight monsters and earn it the hard way. Maybe the locals will have something for me to do."  
  
"Something to do, eh?" Immediately came a wizened voice near his elbow.  
  
Both adventurers spun around, startled. Neither had seen the old man approach. Tiras had to look down before spotting the frail shape barely coming up to his chest.   
  
The elder's face was sunken, partially covered with a scraggly beard. Cheeks caved and flared into a protruding mouth covered by sparse patches of facial hair. The gnarled hands were calloused and crossed with thick gray veins. His decrepit form leaned heavily on a stout staff on ironwood. Robes of gray were inscribed with ancient Horadrim runes. Most arresting, however, were the penetrating gray eyes. They took everything in and devoured the information. The frail body clearly housed a soul still bright and shrewd.  
  
"I am Deckard Cain, the last of the Horadrim magi. I have faced many horrors in my lifetime, and perhaps the marks show itself." The sage smiled wearily, noting how the two were taken aback at his cadaverous visage. Everyone looked that way, these days. Except that man. Realizing they had been staring, Tiras looked further down, mumbling an incoherent apology, while Chantelle blushed.   
  
"Somme Tiras, I will provide you with sufficient funds to purchase that which you seek, and more, if you will embark on a journey for me. As for you, Chantelle, you will find this journey very rewarding indeed. The populace will also no doubt bestow many treasures on you if you complete this task. Jeweled swords, massive axes, magical and artifacts, rare charms… Those who complete it will find themselves rich beyond their dreams. I will not lie to you, however. This quest is filled with peril, and may cost you both your lives. It will require adventurers strong of both body and soul. As of now, only one man has dared to take up my offer."  
  
Chantelle wondered what this quest might be, and why it was so important. Recalling her own mission, she was about to refuse the old man, when Tiras suddenly asked, "How did you know my name? Who is this other man?"  
  
Cain laughed quietly, without humor, and replied, "A simple thing for a Horadrim to do. Such simple things as deciphering one's name do not obstruct me, even if I am steeped with age. As to your other question, he is one whom is first and foremost concerned with preserving the delicate balance between good and evil. He is constantly misunderstood for his calling and his practices, but I hope the two of you will maintain an open mind. The man's name is Vladimir. He is a powerful necromancer from the underground cities of the Kehjistan jungles."  
  
At this revelation, Chantelle and Tiras both started. Tiras began to look uneasy. Maybe this journey would not prove to be quite so worthwhile after all. Necromancers…almost all considered them consorts of evil. They would not balk at using wild and unconventional magicks, often trafficking with the dead as a means of achieving the desired results in a spell. Other cultures despised them for their lack of respect for the dead. Some feared the vengeance of the spirits of the dead; others believed their revered ancestors ought to remain buried and undisturbed. The population as a whole shunned them as grim wielders of death. There were no professions as unpopular as that of the necromancer.  
  
Chantelle recovered first. "Necromancers are vile! Their practices can only dimly be called magic. I may very well be east out of the Zann Esu for being in the presence one of those corpse-raisers. Besides, I am on a journey of my own, and its completion is very important to me. I am sorry, revered one, but I cannot accept your terms. I'm afraid I am forced to decline your offer."  
  
The ancient sage looked directly into her eyes for a long moment, seeming to stare into her soul to decipher her most private thoughts. "I will help you to fulfill your personal quest on this journey."  
  
Astounded, Chantelle tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face. All thoughts of a grim necromancer vanished. How would he know what she was trying to accomplish? Was this some kind of trick? She'd kept her pursuit a carefully guarded secret. It was her whole reason for initiating this journey. Arcanna had told her that it must take precedence over all other matters and so it was her first priority. The girl stammered, "What…what do you mean?"  
  
"I am not without abilities of my own, young sorceress. That is how I have divined your… condition. All I am saying is that your personal mission coincides with the completion of my own. You may trust me on that."  
  
The sorceress felt confused. Could the Horadrim magus really be trusted? Horadrim magic-users were generally considered more trustworthy and benevolent than others. But how could he promise her success on such a difficult task? Did he have any hidden motives? But on the other hand, she would be able to help Tiras while possibly fulfilling her duty, not to mention securing the favor of the people, thus accomplishing a threefold resolution.  
  
"What must we do?"  
  
"Go deep into the deserts of Aranoch and defeat the evil demon, Duriel, in the tomb of my ancient brethren, the Horadrim named Tal Rasha. Duriel is a powerful demon with the powers of Hell. It is a master of the cold elements, and delights in draining life away from victims in the form of paralyzing sicknesses. However, these are merely symptoms of the demon's hold, and the victim's life and vigor will gradually fade away. Rarely do these sufferers survive past their childhood. Duriel draws strength from the lives he is able to affect and grows stronger with each passing day. The victims may be able to hold off the demonic influence for a time, but they will ultimately succumb. The demon must be destroyed immediately, or the eastern regions will be sealed off from Aranoch forever." Cain visibly trembled from this last, so affected was he by the description of the powerful fiend.  
  
Recalling the lore available in the jungles, Chantelle decided not to mention anything about the demon. Cain must still suffer daily nightmares from the destruction of the township of Tristam. How horrible it must be to watch your home defiled, your people ravaged and slain before your very eyes! To watch your life flame into a thick cloud of black smoke disappearing into the sun… it would be more than enough to destroy any ordinary man. Cain, it appeared, was no ordinary man.  
  
Chantelle broke from her musing as Tiras voiced a fresh protest. "Why is the necromancer coming? Can't we go without him?" The girl voiced her agreement.  
  
"No," Cain said sternly. "You will need him for your expedition. His skill will complement your own. You will find that his powers will be quite welcome in your party."  
  
I guess it will be all right, as long as no other magi see us, Chantelle thought to herself. "Is there no others that would come with us?"  
  
"None. Besides, a large party would attract more vicious creatures, and stealth would no longer be an option. A group of three is ideal for this journey."  
  
Chantelle wanted to know more of what the sage thought about her. "Tell me how this quest you propose will help me."  
  
Cain smiled, a humorless pursing of the lips. "Simply this. Duriel has the power to control demonic ice. You can never defeat him using your current branch of magic, the ice element. Surely you must then find another wind to fight him, perhaps using fire?"  
  
Chantelle felt his words hit her with a silent force. So he knew…he knew all about her. But fighting a demon? Arcanna surely did not mean for her young student to engage in such a battle. Even with Tiras at her side, how could the two fight a force of Hell? Surely it was too much to ask of anyone. But couldn't she at least try? There didn't seem to be any better choice at the moment, and the girl wanted to learn more about Tiras, who looked fierce and eager to begin. The immortality of youth is an assured thing, often proved wrong, but nonetheless a steadfast belief.  
  
She looked to Tiras impassively, who looked back at her eagerly, clearly wanting her company but willing to respect her decision in the matter. Shrugging off her remaining doubts, the sorceress met Cain's calculating eyes and nodded. "I will accept." 


	4. Suspicions

Shadows seemed to coalesce around the dim figure. Even in the crowded port city, the people gave the man a wide berth. Power seemed to emanate from the stranger in waves. He was dressed in ornate black body armor, all steel plates and spikes that jutted menacingly from the shoulders. A bone-white kris dagger hung openly from a leather belt. The sinister curved blade seemed to glow, illuminating the man's pale face and white-blond hair. Darkness followed in his wake, leaving the bright lights of Lut Gholein noticeably dimmer as he passed.  
  
So it seemed to Chantelle as the necromancer walked to the appointed meeting place, a large tavern called the Oasis. The Oasis was remarkably clean for an alehouse. The food was not as greasy, and the drinks seemed more exotic and refreshing. For this, the owner charged exorbitant prices, well above the adventurers' price range. It was why the two were sitting gloomily in a corner, hungry and thirsty, vainly trying to ignore dirty glances from the barkeep. "Finally," the barbarian grouched as the other man made his way to their table. "What took you so long?"  
  
The dark sorcerer seemed just as irritated with the warrior's presence. "Cain did not mention a savage was to be among us. At any rate, certain matters…have kept me from our meeting."  
  
"Desecrating another corpse maybe," Tiras suggested darkly.   
  
Anger blazed in the necromancer's dark eyes. "You attempt to mock me, but you barbarians are no better, stripping the dead of any items of value, robbing loot and plunder alike, just like the scavenger vultures out there in the desert. You're a shame to that dead king of yours, Bul-Kathos," he said mockingly.  
  
The muscular fighter took so much offense with this comment that Chantelle was afraid he'd attack the magic-user, effectively ending the journey before it had begun. To prevent further dispute, she quickly interjected, "I am Chantelle, and he is Tiras." She pointed at the warrior. "What is your name?"  
  
"I am called Vladimir," the man said, visibly losing some hostility.  
  
He wasn't so bad, Chantelle thought. He's just like any other person.  
  
"Where should we go first?" she wondered aloud. "I must confess I have no knowledge of the desert regions."  
  
Vladimir answered dryly, "The legend of Duriel's confinement is as long and convoluted as the passages rumored to lead to his cell, and I have neither the patience nor inclination to relate it to you; so to shorten the tale, we must simply acquire a Horadric Staff and unlock the tomb in the Canyon of the Magi. Through the locals, I have learned of the key to opening Tal Rasha's tomb. We must secure one of the hidden Horadric staves. Ancient legends say one of these can be found in the ruined city of Cabalrah. In its time, Cabalrah was said to hoard fabulous riches and many treasures. Cabalrah was one of the most prosperous cities in Sanctuary, rumored to rival the greatest of the Western kingdoms.   
  
But one greedy official was seduced by evil. A demon bestowed him with hellish powers, which he used to open a gateway to Hell. This demon was Duriel, the Prince of Pain, and one of the Lesser Evils. It rewarded the man's betrayal by forcing him to become eternal guardian of a demonic portal. Countless minions of evil swarmed through the portal, led by Duriel, and destroyed the city. The demon left to wreak his will upon other places. Since then, many adventurers have tried to locate the lost city and come back with the fabled wealth of Cabalrah, but none have ever returned. We may be sure they now reside with there as undead to prey on unwary travelers. This is where we must go."  
  
"You didn't find out all this from the locals. The citizens surely cannot know all this legendry," Tiras glowered suspiciously.  
  
Vladimir caustically explained, "There is a keeper of lore here named Drognan. He has ancient histories at his disposal, from which I researched this information. Now if you are done trying to redeem yourself in the eyes of our companion," his tone turning sarcastic, "we should make ready to leave."  
  
Blood rushed to the barbarian's face in mounting anger. He stepped forward, lifting one long sword in a threatening gesture. At the sight of the cold steel and the giant's flashing eyes, most opponents would back down or at least hesitate. But the necromancer only stared back at Tiras coldly. Chantelle imposed herself between the two. "Stop this!"  
  
The big man growled, "We do not need him, Chantelle. Let me do the world a favor and remove this spawn of evil." The girl was unexpectedly reminded of her deep aversion to physical violence. Vladimir merely smiled, a predatory smirk.  
  
"Calm down, both of you. How will we fight the demon if we kill each other before we can even get to him?"  
  
Tiras looked away, ashamed. The dark sorcerer met her eyes coolly, seeming to devour her in his gaze. His eyes were dark, mirror-like orbs. They drank in light and gave back only darkness. Suddenly, Vladimir's eyes seemed to flare and fill with flickering fire. Startled, Chantelle took a step back, and the flames were gone, leaving only smoke in its place. Was the man actually a minion of Hell? Maybe she had imagined it. She shivered slightly, from vague fear and a strange curiosity. Something about him drew and repelled her at the same time. The sorceress flushed, realizing she had been staring.  
  
Tiras disturbed the awkward silence, his voice a low rumble. "So how do we get to this Cabalrah of yours?"  
  
Vladimir glanced disgustedly at him. "Walk."  
  
The three walked beneath a burning sun. The sky was cloudless, offering no solace from the scorching heat. Thin squiggles of heat squirmed their way out of the hot ground, airborne at last. Little insects scurried hot-footed across the sands, unwillingly to burn their only means of transportation. But there was no other sign of life, except for the cactus here and there. Hostile eyes watched the only living things that foolishly sought to defy this rule.  
  
Face dripping with unrestrained sweat, Tiras fared the best of the three. Squinting his eyes against the steady torrent of exuding liquid, he mopped away the pool of body fluid gathered on the slope of his forehead. Though he was long accustomed to harsh climates, and reveled in the feel of the heat gracing his bare skin, this heat was decidedly unnatural. It was palpable, almost a physical presence that embraced one and all with its overwhelming love. No wind came to alleviate the manifestation of the desert. When Chantelle ventured to protest the possibility of being sunburned, he scoffed unconvincingly, bragging that the warriors in his village practiced the technique of resistance, the ability to shrug off the harsher elements of nature. Staying conscious for days in violent mountain storms, meditating through a blinding dust storm in the heart of another desert…those times seemed long ago, the warrior thought. What was so different about this desert?  
  
Vladimir on the other hand, kept to himself, seeming to have lost his powers of speech. The blond-haired man wore a dark hood over his head that obscured his features. He looked distinctly like an executioner. With matching, form-fitting sable armor, he must have felt like a baking oven, but still he spoke no word of complaint. Chantelle suffered the most. Though the Zann Esu lived in humid jungles, they were always under shaded, sheltering canopies. The direct sunlight of Aranoch scorched Chantelle's already tan skin and charred her dark, billowing hair, so she wrapped a white silk cloth around her head, forming a veil, and gingerly tried to walk in Tiras' large shadow.  
  
Tiras grinned widely when he noticed the necromancer's discomfiture, but his look changed to concern when he saw Chantelle staggering along. "We should stop and rest a moment," he told her softly, though he had driven the trio relentlessly along all that morning and into the late afternoon. He had walked so quickly, taken such large strides, that it seemed almost that he was running from something. Remembering this, the sorceress nodded wordlessly, too fatigued to answer. She took a deep breath, and as she did so, caught the fighter eyeing her rising chest appreciatively and blushed when he whispered, "I like your… eyes."  
  
Uncharacteristically, he almost shyly turned away and called, "Hey gravedigger!   
  
How are you holding up? Let's stop a while!" Vladimir made no effort to reply, already making use of the time to drink from his canteen. Chantelle sat on a blanket the barbarian had thoughtfully laid out for her, smiling at him in gratitude. This was a clan quilt, she realized, noting the stylized image of the celebrated warrior-king, Bul-Kathos,   
  
skillfully embroidered in red and black against a russet background. The figure was the dominant persona on the coverlet, portrayed performing a host of heroic actions that seemed inconceivable for a lone man.  
  
The dark sorcerer stood aloof, keeping a watchful lookout. Scarcely a moment had passed before he noticed small shapes in the distance beneath the sinking sun, and he hissed a warning, startling the others. "Gorebellies! A group of them are headed our way! They must've been tracking us, waiting for us to get tired. Interesting how none of us noticed them."  
  
Tiras cursed, "For honor's sake, we didn't even get a chance to rest yet! This could be tough." He scanned the horizon with bravado, sizing up the rapidly closing figures. "Time to prove your worth in battle, necro."  
  
"Better watch your own back. You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead."  
  
Chantelle's heart pounded crazily. Her fast breathing echoed in her own throbbing ears. Nervously her eyes wandered, and her mind was as blank as a clean slate. "How could they both be so calm?" she wondered, studying her companions' faces. They were veterans, the girl realized. They have both killed before. Battles to the death were nothing new, even routine. Small wonder that they felt sure of themselves. By contrast, this would be her first real battle… and possibly last. No more casting spells at painted targets or in a specially guarded practice area, no more using magic unseen behind a cactus as she did for Tiras. How would she do? She felt wholly inexperienced and unprepared.  
  
The monstrous creatures advanced with astonishing speed. Each was fully 9 feet in height, dwarfing even the massive barbarian. They resembled Tiras in many ways. Each was a hulk of bulging muscles, with tattoos and scars covering their bodies and only a ragged hide for clothing. All bore gigantic clubs, studded with metal spikes. The giants seemed primordial savages, arising from the dawns of time to hunt their prey. They might have been distant kin to the barbarians, for their many similarities in appearance. How had these creatures ever been created? Chantelle decided she definitely liked Tiras more than the grotesque humanoids.  
  
The girl focused her concentration inward, recalling her arsenal of magicks and mumbling absently to herself as she decided which spells to use. Meanwhile, Tiras glared across the desert at the charging monsters, tightly clenching the grips of his weapons, working himself into a fury. By the time they reached him, he would reach a near berserk stage. At that point, he would be as dangerous to friend as to enemy. Of the three companions, only Vladimir seemed relaxed. He appeared not to pay attention to the hulking creatures, idly gazing off into the distance. The sorceress tried to remain vigilant, fighting the urge to shake the necromancer out of his apparent daydream.  
  
As the first of the Gorebellies reached the trio, the girl performed a swift series of ancient power symbols with her dexterous fingers, which released a widening ring of frost over her companions' heads. The ice froze limbs and numbed hands, slowing the giants' progress. Clubs dropped from nerveless fingers. A layer of frost rimed metal adornments, drawing screams of pain from the angry giants. Some of them had worn rings on sensitive parts of their bodies. Laughing uproariously with a maniacal gleam in his blood-tinged eyes, Tiras leapt on the lead creature, shouting a roar of defiance that shook the air.  
  
The barbarian's right blade darted in and impaled the ice-covered monster, while his left reached up to slit its throat. Gorebellies converged on him while he was recovering from his lethal attack, shaking off the clinging ice, but they suddenly switched targets to assault one of their own. The beleaguered humanoid fended off a few strikes, but a traitorous friend crept up behind it and delivered a powerful blow that crushed its skull. The last facial expression of hurt betrayal and surprise, frozen in death, was surprisingly human. Looking for the source of this miracle, Tiras spotted Vladimir chanting in a strange language. It was like no language he had ever heard before, and the whispered words sent chills up his spine.  
  
While the second collapsed under its fellows' onslaught, another rushed at the necromancer. It was intercepted before coming anywhere near him. The fallen Gorebelly had loomed up before its former comrade and bashed it solidly aside, as if angry at its companion's duplicity. Tiras gaped in surprise. This was power of a magnitude he had never seen before. What would it be like to control the very forces of nature, to hold dominion over death? The warrior wondered how Chantelle was faring with the heavy meelee assault and was astonished to see her standing off to a side, eyes closed and fingers tracing strange symbols as a voice that was not her own uttered peculiar words. He shook his head and joined the fray once more, fatigue weighing heavily on his muscular body.  
  
The sky grew dark as the battle raged on. Murky clouds blocked all light but a few jagged crimson veins. The fighting ebbed as unnatural night fell. Apprehension filled the air, the charged atmosphere before a coming calamity. The monsters stared up at the sky in a mixture of dread and horror, aware in their primitive minds that a primeval cataclysm was pending. As one, they began to flee into safer areas, scattering in panic. But it was too late. A weird roar filled the air as a coal-black silhouette appeared in the heavens, wreathed by vengeful flames. The shape grew larger until it seemed the only object in the sky. The only visible light now came from the approaching apocalypse, a scar ripped into the night as a sanguine wound dripping with scarlet blood.  
  
"On the ground!" Tiras bellowed, praying to Bul-Kathos that they would die instantly, without much suffering. He braced for the impact, hoping for a happy afterlife involving Chantelle. The sorceress could do nothing but obey, though she barely registered his words in her enervated mind. She collapsed in a shivering heap on the baked sands, half-dead with decrepitude. Her eyes rolled back, body shaking with epileptic seizures. Vladimir's undead creature carefully covered his body with its own.  
  
The meteor struck with an earth-shaking blast, incinerating and crushing the giants immediately. Its concussive force threw the huddled group from the ground. Sand erupted, whipping exposed skin into raw and bloody tatters. Chantelle stared at the ground in detached fascination. What will it feel like when I hit…? The musky scent of freshly dug-up earth filled her nostrils, and a pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around her, stopping her descent a few feet off the ground.   
  
Almost but not quite resigned to his fate, Tiras had still been lucky enough to anticipate the moment the meteor would strike, and he had leapt up seconds before. Unfortunately, the momentum propelled him farther than he liked. An enormous fist shot up after him, plucking him out of the air. Deprived of his guardians, Vladimir was hurled far away, striking the unforgiving sands with mind-numbing speed. He heard something crack in his ribs, and merciful darkness stole his sight and robbed away the pain.  
  
The golem dissolved without its creator's mind to guide it, and Chantelle was unceremoniously dropped on the ground. The barbarian too had been spared from injury by the risen Gorebelly, which set him down and marched over to its master. The two cognizant members of the group stood close, watching the carnage in awe. Almost no trace remained of the assailants. Only blood splatters and strewn limbs showed evidence of the creatures. Smoke rose in thick clouds as fire still rained from the sky to sputter harmlessly into the sands. In a few weeks, even the meteor itself would vanish into the deserts, swallowed by the sands of time.   
  
Tears filled Chantelle's eyes, and thick smoke was not the only cause. The attack had lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed hours to her. It shocked her to see that she could destroy the humanoids so utterly. For some reason unknown to her, killing them was different from slaying the insect demons to save Tiras. And it had been a fire spell…spells she had always had trouble with. Was something affecting her spellcasting? She hadn't realized she had this kind of power. In fact, she had never even practiced this one before. And it seemed one of the highest order of magicks, on that took many years to learn and even more to control, for fire was a notably imprecise element. And yet she had cast it with pinpoint accuracy. The thoughts in her head were bitter. What cruel fate would finally allow her a fire spell, and yet not enable her with knowledge of the magic? The words to the incantation had just seemed to flow into her lips. The young sorceress lay down, unmindful of the debris strewn across the sand, exhausted from casting a spell she didn't know.  
  
The late afternoon stayed dark, the sun having fled the skies to rule over an easier portion of the heavens. Masses of grey clouds mournfully patrolled the area of the bright orb's passing, averting their gaze from its pitiless killer. The few stars left in the firmament were further away than usual, haughtily denouncing their brethren's chosen fate. And slowly, the land turned cold, as if the meteor had sucked all its life and blood, leaving but an empty carcass. The fallen star sat cruelly smug at the core of its self-appointed throne.  
  
Tiras' blue eyes regarded the girl intently, shame on his face for being attracted to such a cold being. The conduct of the magi seemed more mysterious to him than ever. To bring down a star from the heavens? That was a deity's power, not man's. It was as his instructor had always told him. Magic was a force too often abused for power. It was best to rely on the weapon, the way of the true warrior. Fighting with honor was a way of life for the people of his village. At least that way the killing had a challenge, a meaning to the deaths of the fallen. But to strike down an enemy whom had no chance, no defense against magical powers was too much like slaughter…murder. All of a sudden, Chantelle didn't seem so innocent and in need of protection. 


	5. Death

Tiras walked slowly off by himself, brimming with unfulfilled questions that failed to produce answers. How was his family doing? How could they live without growing any source of food? Even hunting game had become scarce when he had left to seek a permanent source of victuals for the clan. What sort of conditions would he find in his home village when he returned at last? Would this quest yield the treasure he so desperately wanted?  
  
The warrior grimaced, regretting his frankness with Chantelle earlier in telling of his people's predicament. How could he have been so blind as to not see her obvious supercilious manner in the casting of her spells? It must have been hidden in her beauty, for he did not foresee this cruel manner at all. I should have known better, he thought angrily. But that had always been his problem. He was too trusting, his parents said. One day he would be burned. And that day had come; Chantelle openly flaunting an indescribable force to destroy their hapless foes. She had shown herself more powerful than he too, shaming him in his most formidable aspect. That necromancer was very strong too, shocking Tiras to the core of his being, who had always considered them rather weak, craven cowards.  
  
Chantelle watched as the undead creature set Vladimir's limp body down near the pair. Her eyes widened. In the shadows of night, she had not a chance to study the creature up close. Its head had caved in from the assault of those it might once have called friends, and loose bits of brain and cranial bone fell off regularly. The healthy, albeit mottled, brown of its skin had faded to bloodless chalk. Desiccated muscles still bunched up, though bone jutted from twisted joints. Its head rolled loosely, hanging at an awkward angle. The eyes were wide in an endless stare… The thing was an abomination! The creature from beyond the grave repulsed every fiber of her being. Death was much better than such tortured unlife…  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
The question distracted Chantelle from her dismal thoughts. It was not a question of real concern or care. Instead, it reminded her of her own voice, when she felt threatened and uncomfortable. Tiras' sea blue eyes did not quite meet hers; he shifted from foot to foot, and as she studied him, he grew even more agitated, fidgeting to adjust buckles and straps with tense hands. What was wrong? Why was he behaving like this? She hoped that her catastrophic spell had not frightened him nearly as much as it had scared herself.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
Tiras didn't press the issue. He knew the young sorceress had sensed his new estrangement to her. But though the girl was probably hurting inside and needed someone to comfort her, he couldn't bring himself to trust someone who killed with such devastating powers. Plumes of smoke still crept into the sky, grasping for the nebulous clouds that were swiftly vanishing into oblivion. Who would be next to disappear like those clouds? Who else would feel the retribution of nature, with no chance to escape?  
  
Chantelle couldn't understand. Her crepuscular eyes were watery from the ravages of smoke and emotion. Her skin was raw from the stinging sand, and bruised from the long fall. The meteor had scorched and burned her. The spellcasting of the strange magic had left her so weak and drained she could barely stand. Every muscle hurt; fatigue settled in her arms. Vladimir was in an unknown condition. For all the girl knew, he could be dead. And Tiras was just standing there, staring at her with a strange expression on his soot-covered face. That irritated her beyond relief.  
  
The girl dragged her aching body over to Vladimir. Breathlessly she watched for a sign of life, feeling for the pulse in his neck. It was very weak. Chantelle reached into a brown leather pouch she wore at her side, urgency in every movement. The valuable contents within two of the bottles had spilled with the shattering of the glass vials, staining the pouch in a color reminiscent of blood. Gingerly, she shook numerous shards of sharp glass, plucking out those that had impaled the pouch itself. Too tired to worry about the future health those potions could have offered, she reached inside and drew out the last. It had miraculously remained intact, for which she was profusely thankful. She uncorked the container and began to slowly trickle the liquid into the blond-haired man's mouth, tilting his head back slightly to avoid choking.   
  
Guiltily, Tiras shook himself out of his reverie when he saw the tired magi weakly administer the healing potion. Her hands shook so much that the heavy vial barely remained steady. The warrior quickly strode over and kindly removed the glass from her trembling hands. He resumed dripping the blood-red substance. "Rest, Chantelle. I'll take care of him," he said reassuringly.  
  
"Will you?" the girl asked wearily.   
  
He couldn't look away from those bright, hurt eyes if his life depended on it. How could such a sweet, innocent face hide the murder of the Gorebellies? But then again, why did he care so much? Why was there this sharp pain in his chest when he thought of her? Unconsciously, she turned away from his intense scrutiny and shuffled over to the pack that held her provisions, perhaps sensing his thoughts.  
  
Chantelle could feel Tiras' eyes on her again as she reached into her pack and drew out a light tan cotton blanket. She cocooned herself within the soft folds, noticing that already, gritty, clinging sand adhered to its underside, warming the downy surface. Why was he treating her so coldly? The sorceress slumped to her makeshift mattress. It was getting harder to remain awake with each passing moment. She looked up at the big man. The thought of the barbarian taking advantage of her exhausted condition did not occur to her. "You'll wake me up…when it's time…right?"  
  
"Of course."   
  
"Wake up, Chantelle."  
  
"I'm asleep…" she mumbled drowsily, throwing a slender arm over her drowsy eyes. Tiras gently shook her.  
  
"You asked me to wake you when it was time, remember?"  
  
The sorceress propped herself on her side and groggily shook her head, clearing the fogginess in her mind. "I'm sorry. I was very tired," she murmured, embarrassed. The evening had passed, and pale strands of dawn were beginning to peek out from the horizon. Hopeful light brightened her spirits, clearing away the fatigue and doubts from the nightmare of the previous day. Tiras stood outlined by the expanse of surrounding vista, the very image of an ancient warrior-king. Life and vigor pulsed into the blue, glowing tattoos that sketched his face.  
  
"The necromancer's awake."  
  
Chantelle looked past the awe-inspiring warrior to Vladimir. The light traced the fighter, but shone directly on the dark magic-user, enveloping him in a halo of dazzling power. His short-cropped hair seemed even lighter than usual. The fervid smoky eyes caught her own again. They hinted of secrets and hidden knowledge. "Tiras explained…to you I owe my life," the dark sorcerer told her softly.  
  
Chantelle protested, blushing, "I only gave you a healing potion –"  
  
The man responded by taking her hand firmly. "But you gave it to me in time."  
  
Unsure of what to say, the young girl looked away from his piercing gaze. Inwardly, she couldn't stop smiling. How good it felt to be the one saving others! Then she felt a slight tremor beneath her feet. The ground shifted slightly, gathering its strength for a second uprising. Startled, Chantelle slowly backed away. An earthquake? "Did anyone else feel that?"  
  
"Feel what?"  
  
Chantelle saw a pinch of sand fly in the air. "I think–"   
  
The world exploded under her. Heaps of warming sand blasted up into the yellow-pink of the sunrise. Chantelle sprawled as the ground buckled. Ochre mandibles cleaved the air where she had been a moment before. The sorceress quickly took stock of their situation as she lay there. Enormous insects gushed onto the desert surface from cunningly crafted pits, trying to catch the adventurers off guard. A shiny metallic golem lifted its creator from harm, effortlessly taking crippling blows on its own iron skin while the barbarian jumped clear of the emerging sand maggots.   
  
"Damn!" Tiras swore, "They just keep coming!"  
  
Long ago these vicious monsters had been harmless, but the return of the Prime Evils had triggered a vast mutation. Sand maggots had been a favorite treat of the desert dweller, supplementing a diet of succulent cactus fruit and small mammals and reptiles. The insects had grown to become killing machines, hunting those whom had dined on their ancestors. Seven feet long, with wicked scythe-like pincers, grasping mandibles, and hundreds of legs to swiftly track their prey, the creatures were among the most feared denizens of the land.  
  
Chantelle drew within herself, retaining a sense of calm and peace amid the chaos. She thought of her home in the north. From her palm grew a gelid shard, formed by the will of her mind. The wizardess launched the sliver at a group of beasts, guiding it with magic to inflict as much damage as possible. As it touched, each froze in their movements, encased in a thick layer of ice. Her heart jumped, and she gave a ragged cry of joy. But the heat of the rising sun and the maggots' flailing soon melted the frosty confines.   
  
Whispered chanting soon culminated in a rush of electricity slicing through the air. The monsters, still dripping with melting ice, attracted the lightning like a metal bar. Flashes erupted through each, made more potent by their wet shells. Hissing green acids spilled out of the dying desert sharks, corroding away the sands that supported their bulks. High-pitched screeches resounded in Chantelle's ears as the maggots emitted their last gestures of defiance. Momentarily deaf, she never heard the frenetic scrabbling at her ankles.  
  
Incredibly powerful jaws smashed her to the ground. A red haze covered her vision as she strove to recover, frantically trying to twist away. But the sand dweller did not let up. Holding her firmly, it hurled her bodily into Tiras. The barbarian stumbled and nearly fell into the mandibles of his own adversary. Holding off the mutated maggot, he spun around, determining the source of his distraction. A fierce glare pinned Chantelle for a moment as Tiras tried to control his bloodlust. The deep blue eyes were rimmed with criss-crossing blood vessels, staining azure diamonds with crimson rubies. He offered an arm, already turning back to his opponent. The raven-haired girl rose and backed warily away from her deadly attacker.  
  
Thunder boomed across the desert. Thunder? The skies were cloudless; there was no sign of lightning. The noise shook the earth, growing louder and stronger. With growing dread, Chantelle realized what it was. The pounding feet of many, many Gorebellies, coming to claim their revenge on her. Another clan of giants, ready to avenge their fallen brethren. The sorceress could envision it. The humanoids would growl their human roars, angry at the world itself for attacking them. The clubs would descend from the sky, and all would turn to nothing. She barely resisted as her assailant caught up and seized her in its twitching mouthparts. So soon…she would become part of the desert.   
  
A dagger lanced into the brain of the sand maggot, driven by an obsidian gauntlet. Vladimir materialized beside her, prying open the creature's jaws with superhuman strength. Swirling cerulean energy suffused those hands, attributing to recent spellwork. The girl desperately scrambled out from the death-grip. "Thanks," she wheezed appreciatively, breathing heavily.  
  
"Just returning the favor."  
  
Vladimir suddenly gasped. A foot-long mandible sprouted from his ebony-armored chest, glistening wetly with dark blood. The piceous plates had done nothing for its wearer, helpless against the sharp mandible that still lodged in the white-blond man's chest. The jagged wound sprayed resentful blood; twitching mouthparts dripped hungrily.   
  
The man looked down uncomprehendingly as his lifeblood spilled into the desert sands. Enchantments laid upon the armour, connected to the life of the magi, sputtered and died in quick flashes. Time changed into hundreds of images devoid of color and vision faded into a few shades of grey. The necromancer's hand shook, and his kris dagger slowly dropped to the ground. Its owner slumped down with it, seeking out and clenching the blade tightly with his dying grasp. The curved white blade reflected the otherworldly white shine of the sun across the horizon.  
  
"No!!!" Fire burned in Chantelle's eyes as the words came to her again. Strange words… words that spoke of flames and destruction. She could not see anything but the inferno that rose up all around her, purifying her mind of the guilt at Vladimir's death. Anger powered her words as she spoke again, driving the conflagration to new heights. Her last words were nothing but mournful shouts of grief that held no meaning.  
  
Vladimir's body evaporated with the flames, his spirit freed into the sky to seek the peace of the heavens. My one tribute, Chantelle thought as she watched his ashes float high into the air, crisping and sparkling with the last remnants of embers. A hastily conceived cremation, born of a blend of magic and spiritual energy, to send off the departed. What would her own end be like?  
  
Tiras! Where was he? Chantelle frantically stopped her spells, wishing Tiras was safe. Then she saw him, a blackened lump on the ground. The sickeningly sweet smell of burned flesh contrasted oddly with the reek of the maggots' acidic blood. The sorceress ran, dropping next to the charred shape. "Tiras, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. Vladimir died, and I was so angry. Please…"  
  
Then she saw to her horror that he was still alive. How could anyone…? Tiras weakly grasped her hand, his own disfigured and smelling of ashes. The blue seas of the barbarian's eyes had melted into a red, pus-filled goo. "It's not your fault. I know you didn't mean to–" His voice drifted off as the words became obscured with death. The hand holding hers lost its grip and slipped to rest on his chest in the manner of demise traditionally reserved for fallen warriors.  
  
Chantelle saw that the handsome, tattooed face had caved in, opening gaps where white bone clearly shoved through. Severe burns marked the back of his skull where his long, brown tassel of hair had once been. His skin was leathery and raw, bearing a frightening resemblance to Vladimir's undead. She remembered the necromancer saying to Tiras at the beginning of the battle with the Gorebellies, "You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead." Perhaps the necromancer could have restored life to the robust fighter. But Vladimir was dead too.  
  
The thunder of the Gorebellies increased in volume as the creatures stampeded toward the kneeling girl. She could not see, blinded by her tears. Chantelle knew that the monsters were coming, but she didn't care. She had failed her friends… She had failed everyone, and now it was time to pay the price. It was too late… nothing could absolve her guilt but death. The sweet darkness of the calling oblivion appealed her like nothing else. How beautiful it would be to let the shadows of her mind overcome her at last. The bright light of the sun was blinding, and Chantelle bowed her head as the first club whistled through the air…  
  
"Wake up, Chantelle." 


	6. Solace

Chantelle shattered the silence of the scarlet dawn with a strident cry of terror, sitting up and throwing off the blanket Tiras had thrown over her during the cold, bitter night. The warrior was startled into consciousness, half-drawing a blade before realizing there was no imminent danger. Confused and somewhat annoyed, he crouched by the quivering girl. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to kill you. I just wanted…to avenge his death. Forgive me, please…" The girl's words trailed off in sobbing as Tiras gently held her.  
  
She had been dreaming, he realized. "It's okay. You just had a nightmare. Everything's going be just fine. Look, the necromancer's awake." This only seemed to frighten the girl more. Considerably baffled, Tiras stroked her silky, jet-black hair, wondering just what the sorceress had been dreaming about. Probably dreams of magic, of fire and killing. He longed to comfort her more, but part of him was still repulsed by the ruthless nature she had exposed earlier, and the fact that he had stayed up all night in the blistering cold, tending the two comatose magi before him, deterred him from doing so.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Tiras could see that the girl's eyes were haunted and wide with fear; they held guilt and shame with some sort of vision only she could see. Shadows seemed to fill her sight; she stared at him without recognition for a long moment. She shivered with something more than fear. In fact, she seemed sick, cheeks pale and drawn, her dark eyes full of icy warmth. It hurt him to see her so vulnerable. At last, Chantelle stopped shivering so violently and seemed ready to reply, but Vladimir cut in irritably.  
  
"If the two of you will get up, we should be traveling further tonight. Before long, night will set in and we must find shelter from the cold."  
  
"Alright, let's go," Tiras said roughly, helping the shaken girl stand up. He looked back one last time at the sight he had contemplated all day, the crater of the falling star, the physical reminder that would stand as a monument to Chantelle's fearsome power…her cruelty.  
  
The companions traveled on, and as time dissolved into mere fragments of star and sunshine, wintry air and breath-taking heat, Tiras found himself looking at the sorceress when he thought her back was turned, when she talked so animatedly with the other magic-user. There was just something so intriguing about her, something apart from her strength and resilience against the life-sapping land. Something he could not figure out.  
  
A week passed, and as the travelers approached the heart of the desert, the number of sand dunes noticeably increased, in gentle slopes and steep climbs. Chill night began to fall on these, but slowly, as the sun was reluctant to relinquish its hold on the land. During the period between the sunset and the coming of the first stars, a cool breeze stirred up the soft sands. The temperature was comfortable, not too warm and not yet cold. Visibility had been reduced, but at no great discomfort, for the only thing to be seen was the same endless brown stretches of sand, varied here and there by the dunes and a few stout cactuses.   
  
As the companions navigated the endless sand dunes, Vladimir found that they were not far from the haven of the place known as the Far Oasis, consulting the precious map he'd obtained from Drognan. Their progress had been sped by Tiras' knowledge of the land, and the use of various waypoints. Furthermore, it had been decided the best traveling time was during the early hours of the morning and during the relatively cooler hours just before night to avoid heat strokes as well as losing too much energy and moisture. Unfortunately, many desert predators would undoubtedly have this knowledge, too.  
  
Chantelle still distanced herself from her companions as they crossed the deserts of Aranoch, though Tiras had tried more than once to draw her into conversation as he pushed them on at the pace of a fanatic, driving the group to extreme fatigue. It seemed the warrior wished to finish the quest as soon as possible, ignoring the group's physical and emotional needs. He was not insensitive to anxiety, however, and gave the sorceress her space.   
  
The rapidly cooling night, for some reason, seemed more sinister than the ones past, lending credence to the girl's edginess. Each hungry howl of the wind, every imagined sound caused the panicky sorceress to jump. Vladimir observed this and silently drew near the fearful girl. "Tiras mentioned you had a dream earlier. Do not allow a nightmare to plague you in the world of the living, Chantelle. Expose the dream to reality, and it will lose its power."   
  
"I…I don't know. It just seemed so real!" she murmured.  
  
"Tell me," the necromancer pressed.  
  
Chantelle spoke hesitantly, "I…we were here in the desert. Tiras woke me up, and we were talking." Her voice gathered strength as she continued. "Then all of a sudden, sand maggots burst out of the ground! We were faring well at first, but I heard the Gorebellies coming. You saved me when I was distracted. Then one of the insects…it killed you! I was shocked. I didn't know what to do. I can still see it so clearly, here in my mind! I was so angry. I wanted to take revenge…for you, and I forgot about Tiras. My magic killed him too. I wanted to die… That's when Tiras woke me up."  
  
Chantelle shuddered and shook, guilty tears washing down the smooth curves of her cheeks and past her chin. She dropped her head, letting her silky hair fall across her face in caressing waves to hide her tear-streaked face. Vladimir smoothed away the wet trails on her lovely face.  
  
The horrors of her dream slowly turned to lifeless, silent ghosts that drifted away with the next wind that blew through the night. "Good," Vladimir said, noting the color returning to her ashen cheeks. "Don't you feel better now? Take control of your own mind and banish your fears. You've learned to do that from practicing your magic. Remember your training and forget the dream."  
  
Chantelle smiled wanly, feeling relief from the horrifying events in her mind. If I keep active and think of other things, she thought, the dream will trouble me no longer. "Thank you for talking to me, Vladimir."  
  
The dark sorcerer's words stirred questions she'd long been troubled about. "I've noticed something strange in my magic. Before journeying here, I had been inept with any fire spells. In fact, I've never successfully casted any magic to do with fire before. Maybe it had been something to do with my…condition. But I seem to grow more and more powerful in the element of fire. You are magi, yourself. Do you have any idea why this might be?"  
  
"There can be a number of explanations for this. But I would learn of your condition first to prevent a premature answer."  
  
"I've been sick as long as I can remember. I don't know why. I always feel so… cold. My teacher, Arcanna, believes my affliction is magic itself, but that does not seem quite right. She helped me to feel warmth for the first time in my life, but my sickness always resurfaces after casting a difficult spell. I still have never been able to cast fire-related spells…until now. Suddenly, strange words pop into my head, and I say them without knowing why, without knowledge of their meaning. Usually, this is a fatal practice among magic-users, because we lack the will and power and speed to reverse a potentially disastrous miscast spell and shield ourselves from its effects. In other words, you are supposed to die, or at least suffer grievous injuries, if you cast a spell without extensive knowledge about it. But this is not the case. Instead, I can control this unknown magic. Or maybe it controls me! My quest was to seek mastery over the fire element, to end my sickness forever."   
  
"Perhaps this is not as bad as you fear. Perhaps a deity is watching over you, to provide you with guidance as you develop your skills in this area. Maybe it is even Arcanna herself, subtly communicating with you at a distance to help you fulfill your quest. The desert, hot and dry as it is, may also enhance your inner abilities. At any rate, your newfound skills are very useful to us. If it can help save one of our lives, how can these powers be harmful? It is my belief that you should thank your unknown benefactor, and submit yourself to the magic, next time this occurs. Revel in the feeling. Let fire cleanse your doubts and purify your soul. Fire will be your guiding light in this time of darkness."  
  
Chantelle gazed at the necromancer warmly. "Your words are wise, Vladimir. If only I was so sure of myself too. I will follow your advice. I only hope that I can prove to be worthy of your confidence in me."  
  
Tiras broke in, calling, "There's an old sign up ahead. I think we're getting near the Far Oasis!"  
  
The battered sign, carved into a rocky outcropping, stood forlornly in the darkness. Crude white markings indicated the Far Oasis was indeed nearby. Whoever had carved the lettering had not mastered a basic knowledge of language, but the sign still served its purpose. Once they reached the sanctuary, they would be able to refill their water and stop to rest. It had been a long day.  
  
A cloud of nipping insects had landed scores of bites earlier, and Tiras worried about infection. Some bites resulted in an insistent itch, but others had turned a painfully stinging vermeil. After warding off the pestering bugs with a small spell of necromancy, lizards had attacked the small group. Fast and cunning, the reptiles stood upright on two legs, evaded Tiras' swords and Chantelle's spells. It took yet another enchantment from Vladimir to disperse the swift beasts, and hungry eyes could still be felt watching them.  
  
"Hey! I see a pond up ahead!" the barbarian excitedly yelled. He raced toward a distant stand of palm trees that encircled a round pool of sparkling water. The sight was very beautiful in the night, striking a nostalgic note in the chambers of the heart. A slight glow suffused the whole scene, but the source of illumination could not be found. The effect was almost magical. Leafy green palms beckoned invitingly with pale white limbs, smooth and unblemished. The plants stretched forth into the air, full of the glory of life. Below, fresh, whispering waters gently sloshed against the sloping banks, promising rest and sweet comfort. He wanted nothing more than to listen.  
  
Chantelle, on the other hand, watched uneasily as the man ran laughing toward the desert oasis. Arcanna had cautioned her before venturing into Aranoch. "Beware of desert mirages. They are demonic illusions designed to trick unwary travelers into getting lost and eventually dying of thirst or another, more painful demise. Be strong, for the enchantments of a demon will certainly be so."  
  
"Is it real?" she asked the silver-blond man quietly.  
  
Vladimir replied uncertainly. "We can all see it, so it must be. But on the other hand, a carefully crafted illusion could fool even the most astute observers. I have known some keen fighters to follow illusions, will-o-the-wisps and the like, to death, almost against their will. The trouble is that they are all too self-assured. One should always exercise caution. Our friend there may be running into a trap."  
  
Amazed at his choice of words, Chantelle did not register the last words. Our friend? Vladimir had certainly changed over the past few days. The necromancer was more respectful, much more amiable than their first encounter. Chantelle approved wholeheartedly of this change. She had always thought the man was attractive in his own way, so wise and powerful. The girl smiled a little at her thoughts. Who would have thought she would come to like a necromancer? She cleared the stray thoughts to watch Tiras approach the seductive refuge.  
  
"Come, my friends! It's safe! Look, the waters are nice and cool!" Wet splashing noises could be heard shortly after. Hearing Tiras' healthy admission, the two's last bit of caution and reservedness slipped into waiting, rippling pools like the barbarian at the moment. They ran for the inviting sanctuary, inspired by their own deep thirst.   
  
The warrior submerged his entire head in the pool, drinking deeply of the refreshing liquid. It seemed to travel down his throat and spread to the rest of his body without even passing through the stomach. His bulging green veins darkened a shade as he relaxed his muscles. Smiling, he slowly laid back into the moist sand, letting the shadows of the night embrace him.  
  
It felt good, the cool sands pressing against his bare back. Gentle waves mimicking the powerful rolling waves of the Westmarch coast rolled against the shore, glistening with bubbly white foam. Wind rubbed the swaying palms and left, leaving a lingering sense of longing for the faintest stroke, the slightest touch. The sounds of night were muted and quiet; for the first time since leaving his homeland, he felt truly at peace in the solitude. The day's troubles seemed to weigh on him with an almost physical burden. It was so tiring. The last sound he heard was the soft lapping of pearly waves drawing slowly closer.  
  
Chantelle reached the pond before the dark sorcerer, driven by a nearly insane desire to relieve her thirst. Be strong…be strong…be strong… Arcanna's words faded away, a thing of the past, drowned out by the louder clamor of basic survival thought attuned to nothing but the preservation of precious life. The waters were glossy and sweet, trickling through her fingers with a velvety feeling. She bent down to drink in quick gulps, hastily allowing the silken liquid to caress her parched throat, cleansing both body and mind.   
  
Vladimir knelt beside her to do the same though with far less abandon and even a certain sort of grace. The girl sighed gustily and sprawled near the water, interlacing her fingers beneath her head and staring into the dark sky. The stars above were bright and shiny and metallic in a field of utter blackness. And it was so wearying all of a sudden, so hard to keep her eyes open. A short rest would do her so much good right now… 


	7. Oasis

The sorceress' dark eyes flew open in alarm. She couldn't breathe…something was cutting off her air, choking her. Chantelle struggled to throw off the clinging effects of the odd slumber while her hands clumsily found the object that had been strangling her – a vine! To her surprise, the vine pulsed and constricted even as she attempted to remove it. It was a living noose! The girl let out a frightened gasp as a huge shadow loomed over her in the predawn light. She looked up, terrified that the Gorebellies had finally returned. "No…please, no more," she whimpered inaudibly. The thing above filled her with almost as much dread as one of the massive humanoids. A gargantuan plant with sinuous, undulating vines slithered closer to her immobile body, as graceful as a viper poising for a strike. It reached out with grasping tendrils and bound the sorceress, firmly pinning her arms to her chest. Spikes resembling jagged teeth hovered over her face.   
  
"My magic!" Chantelle thought desperately, "I need my magic!"  
  
Tiras felt sluggish, as if he were moving underwater. Each arm seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. What had happened to him? The last memory he had of the night was drinking the mellifluent water. The barbarian groaned. The liquid must have been poisoned or enchanted. His sharp ears caught a rustle behind him. Cautiously rising to his feet, he cursed the water that dulled his reflexes. The warrior glanced around warily, slowly drawing his swords. But before he could extract the long blades, a thick vine ending in a club-like knob shot into his chest like a battering ram, propelling him into the deceptive pond.  
  
The barbarian instinctively took a deep breath, just a second before submerging. The big man thrashed his arms wildly, thankful that he wasn't wearing any armor. Even a breastplate would have ensured his doom beneath the surface. Tiras regained the calm and detached state so often necessary in combat, and concentrated on getting air. In a few powerful strokes, he reached the surface, drinking in the revitalizing air in deep gasps. Then, he realized the water felt firmer and more viscid than it should. Peering back into the depths of the pond, the warrior discovered to his horror that it had completely changed. The formerly appealing waters had turned a sickly green, and it was difficult to see further than a few feet. It was deeper than he'd ever imagined and the environment was ideal for an underwater predator. As he thought of the possibilities this information could entail, a rubbery tentacle snaked around his ankle and dragged him into the murky underworld.  
  
"You can do this," Chantelle thought through a haze of pain. She whispered with numb lips the words to an early defensive spell designed to break an opponent's hold. Frost spread over the vines covering her body, and she shivered with cold. The sorceress tried to crawl from the binds, but the creature suddenly whipped its ropelike appendages, shaking off the frost and slamming her battered body hard into the ground, taking what breath she'd retained away. Its grip tightened, and she heard a crunching sound in her left arm. Long spikes impaled the other, and the girl screamed when she felt the plant drinking her blood, sucking her life away greedily. Black spots swam in her vision as pain, shock, and loss of blood threatened to overwhelm her.  
  
Vladimir desperately called out to her, "Fire! We need your fire, Chantelle!" The necromancer's commanding voice roused her from the dangerous stupor. The sorceress concentrated hard, hoping the peculiar words would form on her lips again. But nothing happened. The magic had failed her.   
  
She rage and seethed with the unfairness of it all. "When I want it, it doesn't work. When I don't want it, it comes so easily! What is this!"  
  
Vladimir shouted encouragement, "Remember how it worked for you before! Remember, and believe in yourself! You can do it! Give us fire!"  
  
I was angry. I was desperate. I wanted revenge.  
  
Chantelle remembered the dark emotions, remembered them easily, and they gave her a strength she had never felt before. Fire! It blazed deep within her soul, burning and purifying. But it was not painful. Instead, it whispered to her heart. Its voice was soft; its words were sweet and seductive, like a gentle caress inside her mind… The fire released her confused feelings, promising power and control. It poured from her, a river of heat and smoke and flame. It bled out of her skin, out of her hands, out of her heart.  
  
The inferno swallowed the carnivorous plants whole. The creatures writhed in agony, quivering and shaking as leaves were incinerated. Each screamed with unholy fury as it burned into wispy ashes. Chantelle's veins were aflame with exultation as she watched the glorious sight. A feeling of pride filled her. She had called on the capricious element, and it had finally come to her.  
  
Tiras twisted, trying to pry off the clinging tentacle. But it suddenly jerked, bringing him face to face with a prehistoric horror. There was a peculiar arch on its head covered with interconnected plates, possibly for ramming an adversary or as some sort of armour. Glaring yellow-brown eyes hungered for his death, reflecting what little light penetrated the opaque green of the water. The creature snapped its jaws, revealing rows upon rows of long razor-sharp teeth. Its muddy coloring spoke of effective camouflage and silent death. The vague silhouette of its sinewy form led the fighter to wonder just how large the beast was. Another impossibly strong tentacle snaked out of the shadows, wrapping around his neck. The beast's slender neck leaned perceptibly forward, positioning for a strike.  
  
The barbarian had heard of creatures such as this but had made the mistaken assumption that they dwelt solely in Kurast. Called tentacle beasts, they secreted a powerful poison with unpredictable effects, which might explain the quality of the pond. But what was one doing out here in the desert? The aquatic creature bared its huge incisors at the warrior as he thought hysterically of ancient legends. Supposedly, the monsters liked to toy with their victims, teasing and frightening their prey for hours – unless they were very hungry. This one looked positively ravenous.  
  
When the monstrous head was no more than two feet away from incapacitating him, Tiras leaned toward the leviathan and jabbed his fist into its left eye. As it reared back in pain, he slipped free of the suddenly slack grip and, running out of oxygen, frantically raced for the surface. Lack of air forced alien visions into his mind, menacing bubbles and sinister clouds that obscured hope. The barbarian saw the dim outline of the bank and surged forward with renewed vitality, frenziedly scrambling in the liquid of the colossal creature's hunting grounds. He hauled himself onto the shore, crawling and slipping in his haste to escape the treacherous water. His usual adrenaline was replaced by a worrisome lassitude, but he could not worry about that now. Exhausted, the warrior flopped to the ground heavily, gasping deep breaths of the sweet morning air.  
  
The terrible head of the behemoth rose up from the cloudy liquid like some vengeful god. It screamed, a ghastly, stentorian keening. The sound shattered the air, making the ground tremble in fear. Tiras rolled back and forth on the ground, covering his ears with both hands in agony as the noise reverberated through his head. It felt like his head would explode at any given moment. The fighter pressed his hands harder against the sides of his head to keep his skull in one piece. He was being reduced to a mindless nothing, defeated before the fight had begun. If the creature chose to struck now…  
  
Surely it will end now, he thought. Death would be preferable to this immobilizing fear. The warrior had never before known such fear. He crawled wretchedly, pathetically, as not a fighter but an infant. He imagined how his people would react, the embarrassment of his tribesmen, the dishonor of his family. How they would suddenly fall silent when his name was mentioned, or worse, how the tribal villagers would laugh at his faltering, his fear, his shame. Tiras cringed and writhed in agony. He would not die this way! There was no honor in this, only shame and disgrace. The barbarian growled with defiance. He would die, but he would at least die the glorious death he'd imagined all his life. Not as a sniveling coward. Not ever. "You can kill me, but you cannot stop me!"  
  
The leviathan eyed the warrior hungrily, and grew still higher, and higher, and higher until it filled the sky with its slimy, dripping mass. Its grotesque shape demanded all attention, shielded as it was with bulky muscle and lean brown-grey skin. Reptilian eyes shone slanted, the left tinged an angry red. The creature screamed without warning again, this time in surprised pain. A pale, shimmering spear had impaled and passed through the monster's tough hide as if the tough, leathery armour of its skin were nothing. Tiras, grateful for the respite, guessed it had probably come from the necromancer. He drew out a long, curved dagger, felt the perfect balance of the barbarian-crafted blade, and flung it into the beast's gaping maw.  
  
It sank home, far into the thing's throat. But even with a knife lodged in its throat, the monster refused to die. Foot-long teeth flashed in the pink dawn, shredding the warrior's chest with a sickeningly wet noise. Tiras managed to just barely avoid a deathblow, throwing himself back. Standing with great difficulty, pain shooting through his body with each movement, he grasped his remaining sword and leapt high into the air as the creature struck again. The barbarian cleaved the air with every once of strength left within. Blood, lots of blood, gushed into the waiting waters below. Its color was hard to determine, mixing with an overpowering green. A cleanly separated head slid from its body with a spray of blue, viscous blood. The wounded warrior landed on the far side of the pond with a snarl of agony. At least he had conquered the debilitating fear that had threatened to steal his very soul. "Now I can die with peace…" he thought as he sank into merciful darkness.  
  
Vladimir surveyed the scene of carnage with a small smirk. Burned husks of plants lay arbitrarily scattered. The monstrous leviathan's body had sunk back into the pond after its demise, leaving not a trace of the epic struggle, except for the jagged, torn flesh of Tiras' chest. The skull of the creature could have been very useful for a certain necromantic spell, rare as the cranium of a tentacle beast was in the Aranoch deserts. But he had not acted quickly enough to save the skull, and now the effort to retrieve it would drain strength that would soon be necessary. "Soon," he said to himself with eyes of flame, "I won't need it!" With a self-satisfied smile, the dark sorcerer drew out a large blood-red vial and prepared to administer the combatant's wounds.  
  
"Don't charge so recklessly into unknown areas anymore, warrior."  
  
The warrior in question looked up from the meticulous work of sharpening his last word. Extensive cleaning and polishing earlier already rendered the blade a gleaming glory. The group had been nursing its wounds at a safe distance from the supposed desert oasis. Healing potions had knit the worst of Chantelle and Tiras' wounds, stopped the bleeding, and given additional resistance to infection and disease, but rest was still a critical factor in recovery.  
  
Tiras scowled. It was obvious that he had wanted his mistake to go unnoticed in all the commotion. "Well, it's not like you did much to help when there was fighting to be done. You just threw a spear. And where were you when the plants attacked?"  
  
"I merely used a few illusions to disguise myself as one of them. Don't question me. If I hadn't thrown that spear, you would've been killed! I saved your life!"  
  
"I didn't ask you to help me. You were only interfering with my fight!" Tiras grimaced with the probable truth of the blond man's words. Hopefully no one had seen his awkward fear. But the next words shattered this hope.   
  
""What fight? You were crawling around like an infant child!" The warrior was too ashamed to reply, falling prematurely silent.  
  
Chantelle sighed inwardly to herself. More senseless bickering as usual. When would they ever stop? "Can we go on our way now? Tiras, we should thank Vladimir for his aid in saving our lives, not condemn and question him. Besides, we did go and drink the poisoned water." The sorceress smiled at Vladimir in gratitude. Once more, his entrancing eyes caught hold of hers in its dark mystery. Dimly, she heard Tiras still talking, but the dark sorcerer held her attention in his gaze. His lips twisted into a cynical smile, and Chantelle broke her stare, flustered.  
  
Tiras repeated his question patiently. "What do we do now?" The two seemed unaware that he still existed. Since when had Chantelle become so interested in the dark-eyed magic-user? Any uneasiness she had felt about necromancers had obviously vanished. What was happening to her lately? Tiras tried to deny it to himself, but he found that he was growing more attached to the girl by the day. He admired her determination, her beauty… The sense of agitation he had felt before had all but vanished, replaced by regret on his part for not capitalizing on his natural advantage over the foul death-wielder. When had this happened? The sense of unease he had felt before had vanished entirely. Was he... jealous? Of a necromancer? When had he become so attracted to Chantelle?  
  
Vladimir's sharp voice cut into his musings. "We must take inventory and check our supplies. I believe we are running low on food and water, and finding these will be difficult in the open desert. I also recommend that we not approach any more supposed oases," he finished dryly.   
  
Tiras flushed, but struggled to calm himself. There had been enough shame in one day to last for the rest of his life. Instead, he recalled how his movements had seemed so lethargic and weak earlier. "The poison. It's not in me anymore. It is your doing?"  
  
The necromancer shrugged. "I am, after all, proficient in the knowledge of herb lore, due to my calling. One of the first things every priest of Rathma learns is how to treat a poison, in the event that he or she accidentally absorbs the toxins. This particular miasma dwelt in the waters, a virulent strain that insinuated itself into your bloodstream. It is relatively slow moving, as poisons go. It spread throughout your bodies and would have rendered your muscles useless. It would not, however, have caused your death. Instead, indigenous predators like these plants would kill you, and the liquid would absorb the blood from the plants' roots."  
  
"You're saying that water is alive?"  
  
"In a sense, yes. Those are living waters, but they do not actively move about. But they do feed, and their food is your blood, which carries many useful nutrients essential to its life."  
  
The barbarian snorted in disgust, clearly disbelieving. "I've just about had enough nonsense for one day. Living water! It's like saying that you are Duriel!" At the invocation, the land shuddered and Vladimir's eyes flared brightly. His mouth twisted in a harshly arrogant sneer. Chantelle did not seem to hear them, shuddering as if reliving an unpleasant memory. "It was drinking my blood!" she whispered brokenly.  
  
Tiras longed to stroke her sleek black locks, breathe in her lovely scent, and perhaps…but the necromancer acted first. "We are safe now, Chantelle. The morning's horrors have wearied you, but they are gone now. Relax, and rest."  
  
Giving in to the soft, intense words and closing her eyes, Chantelle sank into the dark sorcerer's warm arms. His hand stroked her long hair soothingly, tracing the curve of her neck in soft trails of fire. Tiras could only watch in helpless frustration and consuming jealousy. That was exactly what he had wanted to do! How could this Vladimir just…take her like that? He didn't even like her, did he? Completing his thoughts, the dark sorcerer left the girl standing there with a few last words. "We must go."  
  
Confused, the sorceress opened her eyes, only to confront Tiras' grim, pained look. Without a word, he stalked off too, leaving the girl alone in the sands of the vast desert. 


End file.
